


Interesting Times

by houseofthestars



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Fake/Pretend Relationship, Gay Chicken, Humor, M/M, Paranoia, Post-Black Eagles Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Rating May Change, Spy versus Spy, Trust Issues, but all the golden deer are fine i promise, but espionage-style, is it gay chicken if you’re both mlm, planned out this concept as 'pvp fake dating'
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-13 03:28:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28896645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/houseofthestars/pseuds/houseofthestars
Summary: Von Riegan's eyebrows raise, and then that toothy grin returns. “Oh, this is your way offlirtingwith me, then? Why, Hubert, is this adate? I didn’t think you had it in you.”Hubert gives into that desire to lean forward, inspect the other man. Then, impulsively, he reaches across the table and catches a set of restless fingers between his own, stills them in his grip.“What would you say if it was?”
Relationships: Claude von Riegan/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 16
Kudos: 40





	Interesting Times

Hubert sits in his own office, one gloved hand a perch for his chin, the other drumming restlessly on the wooden desk. His gaze, if he were observed from elsewhere, would seem to fall upon the faded remnants of a Ionius V fresco on the eastern wall, upon which a trio of hunters in traditional Adrestian garb pursue a fanged beast, but in truth its brutal artistry swims absent-mindedly out of focus. A number of reports go ignored in his in-tray, despite their urgency. In truth, for the last few days, Hubert has found himself preoccupied in a way that vexes him. For beyond the eastern wall and its fresco, several rooms further along the Imperial palace corridor Claude von Riegan is up to something.

 _An interesting character,_ Hubert had called him once to the Professor, and he’d meant it in the same way that people say _we live in interesting times_. How long had Hubert had suspected that - one way or another - the man would continue to carve his own place into Fódlan’s history? Certainly ever since the Professor had lowered their sword and spared von Riegan’s life in Derdriu. Perhaps longer than that, back to the Academy, where that irreverence and bad habit of attempting to fluster Her Majesty with flirtation had belied the intelligence underneath. 

And how Hubert had been right. Not only had von Riegan thrived, he had made himself known as King Khalid of Almyra, pulling more surprises out of his already well-stocked sleeve like a tawdry street performer. And for his newest trick, here he is in Enbarr, ensconced in the Emperor’s office with Her Majesty and Ferdinand, arguing his case for decommissioning of a eight-hundred year old fortress and rewriting Fódlan and Almyra’s entire history.

That the Almyrans were no fans of the Locket was not news. They saw it not as defence but as a threat, a blade pointed in their direction for eternity. What _had_ been surprising had been the sudden chirping from Duke Goneril several months ago, the firm yet amicable written missive to the Emperor from the Almyran court somewhat later, the trade proposal thicker than the Book of Seiros sent shortly after that. And more surprising still had been that when they had finally inched their way to face-to-face negotiation, von Riegan had arrived personally. There had been no grand entrance or parade on the day of their scheduled arrival, no phalanx of bow knights down the streets of Enbarr. Merely the king and an entourage barely large enough to deserve the name, cutting through the city on horseback at a steady pace with a single Almyran banner between them in gold and green. Her Majesty, never much one for pomp and circumstance herself, had found the whole thing charming enough that when they had finally stopped in front of the palace she’d forsaken propriety and come down from the Imperial balcony to greet them, leaving Ferdinand and Hubert to follow hurriedly behind. They’d all ended up having an impromptu gathering in the grounds, horses and all.

It had been perfectly executed to disarm the Imperial negotiation team before the talks had even started, and Hubert had become immediately suspicious. 

While Hubert is kept abreast of the developments, the talks are the responsibility of the Emperor and Prime Minister, and so Hubert has been left skirting the edges of the royal visit, searching for frayed ends that might reveal the king’s true intent. For instance, his entourage: a tall, elegant representative from the Almyran chamber of commerce, an older member of the royal court and a young but serious-faced bow knight. A modest collective, with little out of the ordinary between the lot of them as far as Hubert’s intelligence was concerned. Nevertheless, it could be argued they are enough in number to aid von Riegan as a distraction, as three pairs of eyes and ears, as reconnaissance.

The timing, too, deserved consideration. Lady Edelgard may have laid Aymr down for good a year ago after cleaving it through the neck of the monster wearing her uncle's skin, but Fodlan was still fragile, in a state of flux. There were plenty of disgruntled nobles who could smell which way the wind was blowing and were attempting to stir up trouble before trouble found them. It would only take a sympathetic ear from a neighbouring power to plant false hope in their heads.

Von Riegan is a strategist, a networker, a survivor, a man who uses the opportunities that are presented to him. Opportunities such as the freedom to roam the halls of the Imperial palace, to reconnect with his old Leicester contacts and to seek out whatever intelligence may be available to him first-hand. Clearly he still has the ear of the Goneril girl, tucked away as she is in Edmund these days, or her brother would have never spoken up in the first place.

And thus, Hubert concludes, Claude von Riegan is up to something. This is what he tells Lady Edelgard and Ferdinand, next they meet.

Ferdinand’s brow furrows a little. “You truly doubt Claude’s motives? Almyra has clearly invested a lot of time and thought into the trade talks! For the negotiations to be merely a ruse seems a somewhat flimsy accusation.”

“I don’t doubt his desire for progress within the talks. Merely the format which they have taken. He’s inserted himself into the centre of Imperial power, for however long the negotiations require. Ample time to use his own resources and connections to search for leverage.”

Edelgard merely looks thoughtful. “What sort of leverage?”

Hubert waves a hand. “The man has connections left over from his time as Duke. Hilda Goneril, for instance, and the Margravine Edmund. Gloucester still has a soft spot for him, too, for all his bluster. With enough time and opportunity he could more deeply establish his own intelligence network within Fódlan, and it’s certainly quicker to do it from Enbarr than from Almyra. With such a network comes the opportunity to obtain documents, influence local politics, finance organisations that suit his agenda.” Hubert should know. He does plenty of that sort of thing himself.

Edelgard hums. “I suppose it would be rather naive of us to assume an olive branch is being extended with no strings attached,” she says. “Better to be proven wrong than to be surprised. What do you propose? I understand your concern, Hubert, but I don’t want you to start ruffling feathers without evidence.”

“A more intensive program of observation,” Hubert says. “Nothing abrasive, of course, but if we can build a pattern of his comings and goings, who he talks to, where he goes, we can be more assured of his motivations.”

“If I may suggest, I took it upon myself to arrange the entertainment for the Almyran party, beyond the formal engagements with Edelgard,” says Ferdinand. “So I have a reservation at the Four Bells this evening for myself and Claude, to experience some of Enbarr’s finest cuisine. If you are truly so concerned as to his motives, Hubert, then take my place this evening. It’s as good an opportunity as any to investigate him.”

The Four Bells is certainly renowned for its fine dining, the sort of establishment that demands reservations weeks in advance for the better placed tables - or, if you are Ferdinand von Aegir, a good word in the owner’s ear. The menu is the sort of fashionable, many-layered, overwrought nonsense that usually makes Hubert’s stomach turn, but he can’t deny the suggestion is plausible, and the opportunity ample.

“Your Majesty?” Hubert says, turning to Edelgard. “It seems a convenient circumstance, in my opinion.”

Edelgard’s fingers patter briefly, thoughtfully, on the arm of her chair. She looks a little tired, but her back is straight, her eyes clear. Minimal pain today, it would seem, which pleases Hubert. “You know I trust you, Hubert,” she says. “If you believe there is cause for concern then I would expect you to do your due diligence. Do what you must, but act with discretion. We have the advantage here, but I’m in no rush to damage international relations. I'd like to think Claude and I both came to the table in good faith.”

“Of course. Thank you, your Majesty.” Hubert bows, and then turns to Ferdinand. “Have you made other entertainment plans for the rest of the week?”

“A few, between those that Edelgard will undertake. A trip to the opera, a recital from the Enbarr Children’s Choir, a roundtable on poetry at the Adrestia-Leicester Literature Society—”

“Cancel them, or take some other dignitaries that require buttering up. I will make arrangements for von Riegan and his entourage for the rest of the week.” There’s nothing wrong with the arrangements Ferdinand has made in terms of intelligence, but Hubert’s damned if he’s going to a roundtable on poetry even for the good of national security.

Ferdinand sniffs a little, but does not argue. “I am due to meet Claude in the ornamental gardens at seven of the clock. You can take my place to meet him there once you have changed your attire.”

Hubert glances briefly down at the perfectly acceptable and adequately fashionable suit he’s wearing and elects to ignore that last sentence. “Very well. Seven o’clock it is.”

—

The Adrestian ornamental gardens sure are… something. Claude’s spent a lot of time the last couple of years making arrangements so that he doesn't have to look over his shoulder quite so much; unfortunately from where he perches on the rim of an ornate, eagle-topped fountain, he is being stared at by no less than four dead von Hresvelgs, and none of them look too happy to see him.

He’s surprised Edelgard has kept them at all, honestly. From what Claude has seen of the sprawling corridors of the Imperial palace there seem to be plenty of conspicuously empty spaces where banners of Seiros or gigantic oil paintings of saints presumably used to reside. Still, the neatly manicured hedges and rows of flowers out here seem meticulously cared for, and amongst the finery of Enbarr's nobility out on some daily constitutional Claude can also see families of townsfolk letting their children run amongst the statues, a pair of lovers holding hands on a bench, a grandmother taking in the sun. Hardly a frequent sight back when she was still princess, Claude imagines.

Well, it seems a lot is changing. Ferdinand von Aegir, noblest of nobles, enthusiastically suggesting introducing some of Almyra’s mathematical techniques within his new school for the common people wasn’t quite what Claude had been expecting, either. He’s curious to pick the man’s brain a little more tonight to see just how serious the suggestion was. Ferdinand had certainly been interested to hear Nabila's description of their place of learning in the capital, a scholarly institution that had no perfectly equivalent name in Fódlaner but that everyone had understood as the sort of place Linhardt von Hevring would find himself right at home. Still, opening the Locket is one thing - starting with the fragile fragments of a dream he thought he'd never see through, and rolling exhaustedly uphill all the way to Enbarr, taking form on the way. There are other ambitions of Claude's that seem even more impossible for Fódlan, but he's willing to try. And there’s no better place to try than here, and no better time than now.

Enbarr in the early summer is warmer than Claude had expected, though still cooler than the Almyran capital. There’s a light breeze that tugs at his hair, gently pushes his braid away from his face, and he tips his head to face the sunlight. It would be good nap weather if he wasn’t on kingly business, which is all of his business these days and leaves very little time for napping. Still, he lets his eyes fall shut to concentrate on the sounds around him: there’s a pair of women talking the other side of the hedge from him, some birdsong he recognises but can’t name, the movement of the leaves in the trees, the distant sound of carriages and horses on the main promenade away from the palace. And then, shortly, the lightest tread of feet upon gravel, moving Claude’s way.

Interesting. Ferdinand, while athletically graceful in that horse riding sort of way, isn’t exactly inclined to stealth. Nevertheless, the footfall continues to come closer, and there’s a familiar cadence to it that tickles memories he thought long discarded.

He minutely shifts his foot to feel the press of the dagger in his boot, and cracks an eye. Well, look who it is.

“Hubert von Vestra, as I live and breathe,” Claude says, opening his eyes properly and standing up from the fountain. “I wasn’t sure if I’d see much of you at all while I was here. I know you prefer a ‘lurking in the shadows’ kind of a deal.”

“What kind of minister would I be if I didn’t take time to greet a royal dignitary, your Majesty?” Hubert says, inclining a flawlessly courteous bow towards him for a perfectly deferential amount of time. He's all long angular limbs and barely-concealed danger, like those birds that fight snakes in the grasslands. “I trust you’re enjoying the ornamental gardens.”

“Feeling a little watched, but what can you do?” Claude says. When Hubert inclines an eyebrow, Claude gestures at the statue across the way.

Hubert follows his movement; the corners of his thin lips curl upwards briefly. “Ah yes. I do find Hyperion II has a particularly penetrating stare. Curious, since Ferdinand tells me that in life he was notorious for his rank cowardice.”

“I guess when they make a statue they can just say whatever they want about you,” Claude says. “I hope if there’s ever one of me they make six foot three.” Hubert doesn’t laugh at that, merely patiently waits with his limpid green one-eyed stare, so Claude coughs faintly and grasps for another line of small talk: “I assume you’ve been following the talks?”

“Her Majesty and the Prime Minister are keeping me abreast of the broad strokes of the discussion, though such things aren’t entirely my remit,” Hubert says, and he really does have a way of infusing scorn into the most banal sentences. “Speaking of the Prime Minister, I’m afraid I’m here bearing his most sincere apologies as he has been unavoidably detained. However, I would ask your Majesty to do me the great honour of allowing me to accompany you in Ferdinand’s stead.”

“Oh?” Claude says, grinning. “You're taking me out on the town, Hubert? I wouldn't have thought such things were _entirely your remit_.”

Hubert brow only twitches faintly at the echo of his words. “I am the Minister of the Imperial Household, and you are our guest, your Majesty,” he says.

Claude keeps his face lightly amused but lets his eyes pass once across Hubert from head to toe, quietly appraising. The minister’s face has been firmly in the territory of politeness since he arrived but his body language is tense, his eyes sharp. Ferdinand had seemed perfectly fine during the day - engaged, attentive, eager to follow up their conversation that evening. Hubert is an important figure in government, a perfectly acceptable replacement for the Prime Minister to smooth over the insult of having no time for a foreign king, but unless Hubert has had a personality transplant since Garreg Mach he’s hardly the sort for schmoozing and fine dining. Dorothea Arnault - as queen consort, opera diva reborn and someone very talented at pretending to like people when obligated to - would have probably been a more suitable replacement. Or absolutely anyone who didn’t make _sincere apologies_ and _great honour_ sound like threats.

Interesting. Interesting enough for Claude to gently flex his foot, feel the press of that knife again. He learned long ago to trust his gut and pay attention to anomalies. Claude isn't a gambling man, but considering who it is, it would be a fairly safe bet to make that Hubert von Vestra is up to something.

“Well, fate does move in interesting ways, doesn’t it, Hubert? I can't wait to see where you're taking me.”

–

For all that the man is a king now, Claude von Riegan’s bearing hardly seems to show it, in Hubert's opinion. He’s never still - as they take a carriage into town from the palace, he shifts restlessly in his seat, watching the buildings pass by the narrow window, fingers drumming against a knee which bounces to its own counter rhythm. He's in shirtsleeves, cravat and a waistcoat, nothing that would suggest royalty beyond the sash about his waist; the evening summer light catches the edges of both the golden vines embroidered upon his cuffs and his usual veneer of a smile.

The Four Bells sits across the square from the Opera House, a favourite destination of patrons and stars alike. The name presumably used to refer to the Saints - there used to be little in Enbarr that was not a fawning dedication to the Church in some way. In recent years, however, the owners have leaned more into its melodic connotations, with a look of the opera box about the furniture and paintings of notable tenors and sopranos hung on the walls. Hubert is not surprised when, on mentioning Ferdinand's name, he and von Riegan are ushered towards a discreet table below a portrait of Manuela Casagranda in her prime as a diva. 

As they settle opposite each other at the table, von Riegan's back to the genteel hubbub of the other diners, Hubert sees a tension seep into the king's posture, his eyes briefly flicking from one side to the other before falling back onto Hubert. When their eyes meet, von Riegan clearly forces his jaw to relax.

Good. No need for him to be too comfortable. 

Still, beyond the gilded frippery there are reasons Hubert had never come here before, and when he opens the menu he barely suppresses a grimace. The descriptions go on for paragraphs, like overwrought poetry. Some of the dishes have _froth_. Von Riegan, too, eyes the list with the faintest raise of eyebrows.

“Not to your taste, your Majesty?”

“I wouldn't say that - just kinda out of my usual wheelhouse. Even food at the Duke’s house in Derdriu wasn’t like this. Though I’d say Lorenz’s chef can probably give this place a run for its money.”

Hubert flicks his eyes to von Riegan's face. “I wasn't aware the two of you remained friendly,” he lies.

Von Riegan matches Hubert's stare for a moment. “Well, it's been a while,” he says, carefully. “We're both busy men. As I'm sure you know.”

“But of course. Certainly Gloucester has been preoccupied with his new role as governor of Derdriu in recent times. Quite the responsibility.” Hubert leans his elbows on the table, links his fingers, rests his chin upon them. “And your sudden rise to power in Almyra certainly surprised everyone in Fódlan, even her Majesty. It must have made maintaining old friendships... difficult.”

“Yeah, well, war is pretty hard on that too,” von Riegan says, and leaves the sentence hanging for a just a beat too long before grinning toothily. “But that's the sort of thing that these talks are about, right? Strengthening the bonds we have. Creating new ones.”

“So I'm led to understand,” Hubert says, resisting the faint impulse to lean closer across the table. It has certainly been hard to get a read on von Riegan this evening, veering as he does from frivolity to guardedness, from gravity to nonsense. It inspires in Hubert the same feeling many other complex and dangerous mechanisms do: the desire to dismantle, inspect. Understand the moving parts.

“Her Majesty’s reshaping of Fódlan demands both the breaking of old connections and, as you say, the forging of new ones,” Hubert continues. “Our relationships with our neighbouring countries are among them.”

“Sure,” von Riegan says, easily, gently dropping his menu down to the table, “Though it'd probably be easier to do that if the Imperial spymaster didn't decide to investigate the King of Almyra when the talks are already underway. I thought you’d be a little more subtle, but maybe you’re losing your touch.”

Hubert’s eyes widen in some parody of insult. “That’s quite the accusation to throw my way after but a moment of conversation, von Riegan.”

“Oh, my mistake. You've taken me to a place that clearly has government connections, with an unfamiliar menu you could easily taint, all to show me a good time? They must do things differently in Adrestia these days.”

Hubert's surprised at this one. Poison is a less frequent part of his repertoire these days, his preferred recipes in the hereditary Vestra tomes tending towards the immediate and unpleasant rather than the subtle and coercive. He's almost a little impressed that von Riegan thought he'd planned for such an eventuality. Nevertheless, Lady Edelgard's warning of not starting a diplomatic incident begins to ring in his ears. 

“If I were attempting to poison you, your Majesty,” he says, since von Riegan seems to want to get down to brass tacks, “I would find it far easier to do so within the Imperial household, and I wouldn't have to endure this menu. We spoke of maintaining bonds, and building new ones. Is it so impossible to believe that I might not have been speaking insincerely?”

Von Riegan huffs amusement. “So I'm supposed to think you took Ferdinand’s place tonight because you want to get to know the real me after all this time?”

Hubert can't help but snap at the bait: “Well, you're quite the fascinating man. Who wouldn't be enraptured by someone so endlessly full of surprises?”

Von Riegan's eyebrows raise, and then that toothy grin returns. “Oh, this is your way of _flirting_ with me, then? Why, Hubert, is this a _date_? I didn’t think you had it in you.”

Hubert’s onward motion of thought comes screeching to a halt.

He hadn’t anticipated this. He needs to respond, and quickly - he calculates his options, as rapidly as he can. Seduction is a tool he's reluctant to employ, for many reasons, but... this is not seduction, not really. Von Riegan has been suspicious since Hubert first arrived at the palace garden and clearly won't believe any claim of earnest intention. But, beyond the suspicion and accusation - there's a spark as if he's enjoying the back and forth anyway, the way that smile had acquired some bite. He's clearly baiting Hubert, expecting him to balk at the suggestion of courtship.

Maybe, for now, that's enough to work with.

Hubert gives into that desire to lean forward, inspect the other man. Then, impulsively, he reaches across the table and catches a set of restless fingers between his own, stills them in his grip.

“What would you say if it was?”

Von Riegan lurches back faintly in his chair, his hand tensing within Hubert’s, but then he stops. His broad shoulders drop, his chin lifts, and suddenly in the candlelight Hubert gets a glimpse of the king.

“Alright, then,” von Riegan says. “You're on. Court me, Hubert von Vestra. Charm my kingly boots off. Let's have this fancy dinner together, just you and me, two men who... _simply want to get to know each other better._ I can’t wait to see what else you have planned to make me swoon.”

—

Claude has a headache.

The tea table in his room at the palace is Hresvelg mahogany inlaid with mother of pearl from Brigid: rabbits endlessly chasing each other's tails in a circle, both predator and prey. Claude traces the line of one as Nabila carefully prepares tea beside him, counting the beat of the dull throb at the base of his skull.

“You're distracted,” she says, in Almyran, sliding a cup his way. Though the two of them aren't what Claude would call confidantes, Nabila has always been politely direct in a way that Claude enjoys. As part of the Chamber of Commerce she also knows the proposed trade agreement inside out, even the difficult clauses that Claude keeps fretting over, debating and revising again and again.

Claude shrugs at her statement. “A little tired, maybe. Nothing to worry about.” He picks up the cup and sniffs: it's not pine, nor is it Enbarr's usual fruity blends. “This tea smells... like wood chips?”

“It’s willow bark. It will help with your headache,” Nabila says. Claude remembers reading in an almanac back in Daphnel, many years ago, that willow bark - if imbibed in great quantities over a number of months - can cause a malady of the kidneys that is hard to diagnose and harder to treat. He also remembers reading that the occasional cup is harmless and dulls pain. He sips the tea.

They’re in the parlor adjoining Claude’s quarters in order to review the day’s agenda, but before they can start there’s a polite rap upon the door. Nabila looks to Claude, who shrugs; she stands and makes to open it. When she returns after a brief conversation in Fódlaner, she’s holding an envelope, sealed at its apex with a wax so dark a red as to be almost black.

“A palace footman had this for you. Are you expecting a letter?”

“No, but I think I might know who it is,” Claude says archly.

Nabila passes a hand over the top of the paper, checking for spells. In Almyra, magic isn’t categorised in the same way as it is in Fódlan, but its end results are largely the same: the wax seal glows faintly white, revealing a sigil. Nabila holds it up.

“There’s a charm on the envelope. It will alert the sender as to when you have opened it,” she says, and passes it to him.

Claude holds it up to the morning light briefly with a huff of laughter. “It’s fine, I think I know what it is. I’m just being asked on another date.”

Nabila waits for the punchline politely then pours herself her own cup of the willow bark tea when it doesn't come.

“Do you need me to speak to the general?” She suggests, and Claude's laugh is a bark this time.

“Ha! Gods, no. Don’t worry about it. Just their spymaster biting off more than he can chew.”

“Spymaster,” she repeats, frowning faintly.

“I know him from my time in Fódlan, from before. He’s an... odd one, but I can handle him.” _Odd one_ might be an understatement, but it'll do for now. Claude’s head still throbs dully; he drops the letter onto the table and pushes his fingertips into the tendons at the top of his neck, as if he can prod them into agreement. As he does, he considers.

There are a few reasons he can guess for Hubert's sudden appearance: if he's trying to influence the progress of the talks outside of an official role, then Claude has been focused on this for too long to let Hubert derail things now. If he's on the hunt for material about Claude to benefit future politicking, Claude knows how to conjure more red herrings than a fishing tournament. And if he has some other, more sinister plan in motion, what better way to counter it than up close and personal?

And as for Hubert's unexpected tactical play... well. Claude had called his bluff, and Hubert, to his credit, had bluffed like his life depended on it. If Claude’s being honest, it had been kind of impressive just how quickly a bony pillar of knives and contempt like Hubert had slid into the role of potential suitor, as polite and florid as if he'd been possessed by the spirit of an Adrestian finishing school for the rest of the evening. 

And yet - for all of Hubert's sudden impeccable manners, it had been impossible to miss the moments where the mask had slipped, just fractionally. In those moments Hubert had leaned towards Claude, just a little, with a glint of something in his eye that stirred the same memories that his soft-footed tread across the gravel had kicked up. And of course, Claude, just as he was prone to worry at a sore tooth or over-bitten nail with a tongue, couldn’t help but wonder how best to provoke them.

When he'd accompanied Claude back to his lodgings, Hubert had taken Claude’s hand in his own again and bowed low, and Claude for a brief moment had expected him either to brush those thin lips against Claude's own leather-clad knuckles, or to conjure a blade from somewhere in the recesses of that dark suit and take his fingers off. And then he had straightened, Claude's hand neither maimed nor kissed, and bid Claude adieu with a sweep of cape behind him.

It had been one of the weirdest nights of Claude's life, and Claude's had some pretty strange nights. No wonder he has a headache.

Nabila clears her throat delicately, and the sound pulls Claude out of his thoughts. “You're still distracted,” she points out. “If you need time, I can--”

Claude shakes his head firmly, waving a hand, and Nabila nods deferentially. A subject to a king.

“The most important thing is the talks,” he says. “That's what we're here for, after all. Run through the agenda for today with me again, would you?”

Once their work is done and Nabila leaves for her own quarters, Claude finally splits the wax on the envelope and pulls out a short note, a cursive just this side of arachnid.

_Your Majesty,_

_I write, following our delightful evening prior, with a wish - however presumptuous it might be - that you might continue to receive my attentions with kindness and favour. Thus, I would ask that you do me the great honour of meeting me once more in the ornamental garden at two of the clock, the day after next._

_I await your answer with fascination,_

_Yrs,_

_H v V_

Claude huffs a laugh. Who knew Hubert could be this flowery? Did he copy it straight out of one of Ferdinand’s books on nobility, or did he give it his own spin first? The _fascination_ is a nice touch. It does feel a bit like they’re both somewhat morbidly compelled to know more about each other right now.

He fetches paper and a quill, and drags the feathered tip across his own lips as he considers how best to write back. He’s really going to have to channel his inner Lorenz here. Break out some _admiration_ s and _esteem_ s. Maybe even a _beseech_.

With the faintest of smiles playing about his mouth, Claude begins to write.

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that while there's a certain amount of setup in this chapter, I'm not intending to get overly bogged down in the game-canon interpretations of this fic beyond contriving a situation where I can crack some jokes and make some pixel men kiss. And much love to Goop and Unrivalled who gave me encouragement along the way!
> 
> I don't have a schedule for updating this, but it will happen as and when.
> 
> Find me on twitter at @hausofthestars!


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